


Jamais Vu

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV First Person, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-09-06 09:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20289529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Pages from the diary of Doctor Arthur Kirkland documenting the events leading up to his institutionalization.





	1. 3RD—V—1912

_Arrived at Château de Bonnefoi just before noon. A fine-boned filly (Nanette) pulled the cart from Vézelay. She was kinder than her driver, who never said a word to me the entire journey once he heard my accent. Shame I had no apples at hand, or I would have given a tip to the pony. Gave nothing to the driver. Had to carry my own bags, obviously._

_ The manor a grand thing tucked into the countryside. One can scarcely determine where the dogwood trees end and the stately stone begins. Ivy drapes the walls, clover carpets the yard. Burgundy continues to astound; nothing so storybook in Bristol, though even I will admit cobblestone cannot compare to natural earth. Certainly easier on the feet, and a good thing because the driver shipwrecked me at the very end of the lane. By the time I reached the house (ah, the joy of sunlight dappled through a vanguard of elms) I was so breathless a young woman greeted me in French and English before I could speak. _

_ “You must be the doctor” from what turned out to be the manor’s only maid. Michelle, sun-browned and rather awkward when I agreed that I was indeed a doctor and inquired where I might find Madame Bonnefoi. The maid stared at me longer than necessary, I thought, almost as though she was waiting for me to say something. Unused to entertaining guests, I can only assume. In any case, she showed me in (a foyer filled with disapproving portraits of French gentry and perfumed wisteria in porcelain vases) and through to the morning room. Here was Marianne Bonnefoi. _

_ A beautiful woman, of course; it is quite impossible not to be bludgeoned by the beauty of France. Rather distracting. I assured her it was not my intention to undress her within moments of making her acquaintance and she laughed. Even more distracting. A curious note: even as she laughed, there was a sadness in her eyes. After spending the better part of the day with her, I have yet to see that sadness expire. I can only attribute it to grief, for the loss of her husband in the accident and the damage to her body and those of her sons. I asked her to remove her gloves and noted the healing of the scars on her fore-arms (in a good state) and then had her lift her skirt and inspected her legs. The bruising was yellow but the cuts were not doing as well as I would like, so I told her perhaps I should dress the wounds before she retired tonight. She assured me Michelle had been doing it precisely as the previous doctor bade her. I assured her I could do a better job. Her smile was rather hesitant. Everything here seems rather hesitant. _

_ Only met one boy, at dinner. (Duck. Pity any water fowl hatched in France.) Alfred showed no glaring sign of injury, but I could see lingering bruises beneath the hair at his temple. He refused to sit anywhere but at my side and loudly reminded Michelle not to forget to set Mathieu’s place at the table, prompting his mother to excuse herself from the dining room for several minutes. Peculiar. This went without address until the end of the meal when — because the boy had yet to be seen — I interrupted Alfred’s incessant chatter to ask when Mathieu would be eating. “He eats after us. He doesn’t like sitting with us.” Peculiar! I asked why that might be, but Alfred shrugged and Marianne only finished her Chardonnay and excused herself again, for good this time. Perhaps Mathieu is so badly scarred that he fears facing his family. I understand he was on the same side of the motorcar as his father, so it would make sense that he bore the brunt of the crash. Shame. I expect much of my work here will be with the poor lad. _

_ Was permitted into the master bedchamber to change the madame’s bandages. No portraits nor photographs of her and her husband; perhaps she removed them after the accident, in her mourning. Her nightgown was silken and patterned with tiny skylarks in flight. The silence was vast, but I did not break it; I’ve long ago learned to busy myself with my work, lest my mouth betray me. Unfortunately she belongs to that troublesome mind-reading caste of women and asked me if I’d ever been married. “No,” I told her, “never.” Asked me if I’d ever courted! Briefly considered dredging up some anecdote about the equestrienne from Dorset, but it didn’t feel appropriate. (Better forgotten, really.) She seemed disappointed at my shaken head. An air of regret surrounds Mme. Bonnefoi. I could taste it as strong as the smoke off the paraffin. _

_ Have just returned to my own room after bidding Alfred a good night (better to make instant allies than enemies with the rambunctious creature) and the same to Michelle. More startling beauty: dark curls escaping her sleep-bonnet. Asked me if I’d like more candle for my room, which I write by now. I have the east wing of the château to myself; the servant quarters are belowstairs and the Bonnefoi mère et fils have the west. A broken family, but I knew that already. Still, it’s difficult to properly imagine suffering until you look it in the eye. _

_ All would be silent if not for the singing frogs. Reminds me of home, in a way. The childhood pond, the mucky jars, all that. Curious, this place. Feelings should not be part of healing, yet I find new ones stirring every moment spent here. _

_ Nothing to dwell on. Morning shall find me with more sense. My head has begun to ache. _


	2. 4TH—V—1912

_Woke this morning only to discover I’d slept three hours past dawn and I was not the only one. I am unused to a household which does not rush to work; there was no tolerance for such sloth from Pater, that is certain. Crept through the silent halls to find Michelle coming in from the back garden with a small basket of eggs. Expressed my surprise, as I hadn’t realized they kept poultry. “We do now” was her response, followed by a very heavy, purposeful silence. A good doctor can read not only maladies of the body but of the mind as well, and so I knew some sort of deception — a lie of omission, one might say — was afoot. I suspected a maidservant would not speak outright against her mistress and so came at it sideward: “Would you say financial turmoil weighs on Madame?” Guilt in the green eyes, an evasive “I cannot say, Monsieur.” Viola._

_Michelle told me Mme. Bonnefoi has taken to sleeping most of her mornings away. Alfred, on the other hand, still rises bright and early and was gallivanting somewhere on the property long before I awoke. Asked her if Mathieu was lively like his brother and received a ruefully shaken head. Not eager to discuss the older of the boys. Pain shrouds this house like storm clouds._

_Because rest is just as important as medicine, I did not wake any Bonnefoi and instead strolled the grounds while Michelle prepared breakfast. Counted no less than two dozen hens and one rooster of unfortunate disposition. Was greeted by the whistling of a yellow-breasted bunting from the branch of a poplar. (One can never look at the bird quite the same after seeing its head covered by a napkin on a French dinner plate.) Gave him some “Are You Sincere”, remembering the Nightingale ladies in their brief moments of revelry (or, one might say, weakness). Our duet was cut short by the arrival of Alfred, who galloped to me with muddied knee and reddened cheek to inform me that breakfast was on the table. I managed to snag the back of his little sweater and asked him to lead me to the dining room, for I was sure to be lost without his assistance. This burden was shouldered with great importance. Asked him if Mathieu would be joining us for breakfast. “No.” Asked him when I could see Mathieu and received only a shrug. Informed him that I’d like to give he and Mathieu both an examination. “I’ve already had that.”_

_“Yes, by a different doctor,” I agreed, “but you see I am your doctor now.”_

_Then the boy looked at me with the strangest of hopes in his eyes and said, “Are you my papa, too?”_

_Couldn’t speak, obviously, and by that time we were walking through the ivy-dripping back door. A child’s imagination can never be predicted nor wholly understood, but the boy is eight years old. Surely that is old enough to comprehend the intricacies of courtship and, for that matter, propriety? How distant was his father, I wonder, if he is so desperate to fill the absence left in his wake? And by a stranger, no less. But I must pity the boy, I simply must. He is a good-natured young lad, undoubtedly, and essentially orphaned by this shattering of his family. I had no chance today, but I think I might suggest to Mme. Bonnefoi to summon a by-day companion for Alfred. No great search must be conducted. A dog would do._

_Breakfast found Marianne once again with a glass of wine. I realized I had yet to see her without a sip of rouge within reach. Haven’t been in France long enough to say if this is usual, but I have my doubts. She did seem in better spirits this morning, asked me about my schooling in Cambridge. Gave her the same old stories (smudged and painted over wherever necessary) but she still seemed wanting. She asked me if I prefer life in England. Told her I was enjoying Burgundy. Asked me if I would consider living here! Feared giving offense, told her I appreciated my lodging in her home and the countryside was very beautiful but I really didn’t intend to settle so soon. More of that strange disappointment. I begin to wonder if this family asked me in with the intention of filling the patriarch role. I would much rather be crutches than a peg leg._

_Perhaps an hour later Marianne and Alfred both left in a governess cart driven by Madame herself, off to town for a purpose undisclosed to me. (A soft-eyed cob called Pierre, brought from the stable by Michelle but handled fine enough by Marianne.) She showed experience at the rein; perhaps this family simply does not bow to the habits of helpless gentry. In any case, it gave me a chance to inspect the premises unencumbered — that is, until I came across Michelle sweeping the steps. Her precise words elude me now, but we spoke at length about the history of the house and its family. Six generations have lived here, apparently; only in the last couple years have they all died off, apart from the current two of course. She seemed to think her knowledge of the history would impress me, but I was more interested in her eyes and the curious way they insist on searching my face. I cannot imagine what she hopes to find there, but I didn’t close myself off to her. Servants can be incredibly helpful, in more ways than one. I eventually asked her where I might find Mathieu. She looked at her broom and admitted she didn’t know. I asked if he was free to go where he pleased or explicitly bedridden by their previous doctor. Her mouth twisted and she said, “He can go anywhere.” Such strange behavior from these people, it makes it almost impossible to speak with them. I asked her to please find me if Mathieu turned up, then made to excuse myself. Just as I was turning from her, however, she took my arm. “Please,” she said suddenly, then seemed to blush and went on more carefully, “please don’t think we don’t want you here. It’s just difficult for us.” I offered her a small smile — even though I wasn’t in the smiling mood after all these half-answers — and removed her hand from my arm. Told her I understand, thanked her for her kindness. Perhaps this job pays so well because no other doctor wanted to see this infuriating disappointment in the eyes of his beholders._

_Then, at long last, I happened across Mathieu. I only caught a glimpse of him as he rounded the corner into the west wing; I found myself running to catch up with him. Despite my foolish fear, he had not vanished and was in fact waiting for me just beside his bedroom door, which was still closed. Terribly pale skin, but no bruises or cuts that I could see without disrobing him. Quite small for his age, none of the puppy fat Alfred wears about his belly and cheeks. He has his maman’s eyes — not the color, but the sadness. I introduced myself as his new doctor and asked if he’d been told I would arrive. He nodded. Asked him if I might examine him more closely. Just another nod. Pulled back his sleeves and pant legs, found no scarring to speak of, only some odd bruising around his ankles. Asked him where this came from. He shrugged. Asked him if his throat hurt, if his jaw was stiff, if he was frightened of me. All gave me a shaken head and no words. Asked him if he was hungry, if he’d join us for dinner. He shook his head, in alarm this time. Just then Alfred’s voice called out from the foyer, and I turned to call back to him that, yes, I was still here. When I turned back to Mathieu, he was gone, his door locked._

_Didn’t see Mathieu again the rest of the day. Asked Alfred about him, got this: “Mathieu isn’t any fun now. He just stays in his room. I think he’s afraid to come out. Sometimes he sleeps all day and he’s awake all night, then he comes to see me. We go on adventures.”_

_Asked him what sort of adventures these might be, and the little snake narrowed his eyes at me! “Those are secret. You can’t come with us.” What nonsense. Childish games, then. I must make note to remain vigilant before I fall asleep for the patter of feet in the hall. It would be like naughty little boys to listen at the doors of a guest._

_Didn’t bother to ask Marianne about Mathieu again; by the time supper was served, she’d drunk enough that she had to hold herself up with one arm at the table. I helped her to her bedchamber while Michelle cleared the table (“Merci, Monsieur”) and Marianne held tight to my shirt once I had laid her down. I asked if she needed something from me. Tears gathered in her eyes and she said, cryptically, “You.” Then she became disconsolate and began sobbing in earnest, so I placed a handkerchief within reach and took my leave. I will admit drunkards are more tolerable when they’re beautiful women, but I had no patience for it today. Have felt out of sorts ever since I touched Mathieu’s cold skin._

_Why would the boy hide, if he is not maimed? Is it only a trouble of his mind that ails him? Perhaps a concussion has made him someone the family no longer recognizes, and they’re ashamed to admit it? And, then, perhaps Mathieu himself feels uneasy in a house of strangers. It is well-documented that brain injuries can affect who someone is. Alfred, being a child, would not be so bothered by his brother’s silence or changing, but his mother certainly would, especially in her time of grieving. I must find some way to speak to someone about it. Michelle seems my best tack. I shall endeavor to befriend the maid._

_The frogs are laughing at me tonight. I had to fetch another blanket from the wardrobe. The pale boy stole the warmth from my blood. Despite all my teachings, this family has begun to haunt me._


	3. 5TH—V—1912

_ Lest I forget, I shall begin with a note regarding the curious meeting last night. I had just set aside my pen and gotten into bed when I heard something moving through the hall. Assuming it was the boys on one of their so-called adventures, I took the candle and went out to investigate. Here I saw Mme. Bonnefoi, like an apparition in the candlelit shadows with her pale nightgown. She and I both startled at the sight of each other and I apologized even though she was the one skulking about in the first place (I suppose one can skulk as one pleases in one’s own home). She asked me if I’d seen Mathieu. I told her yes, I saw him yesterday afternoon, just before she and Alfred returned from town. I could not tell if the red of her eyes was from tears or wine, but she was crying then and, to my surprise, embraced me to sob against my chest as if we were intimates. Hideously awkward, obviously, least of all because I feared her candle would set my hair aflame. Eventually asked her what I might do to soothe her and all she could come up with was “Hold me.” So hold her I did, there in the hall, the candlestick in one hand and my other at the small of her back. We had never been encouraged to touch our patients without medical purpose, but in this case I made an exception. I had been called in to help her and her family. Without a husband’s arms to fall into, I suppose mine could be the next best thing. _

_ Eventually I escorted her back to her bed. Always a jolt to the heart, how beautiful the woman is, especially there as she sat against her pillows and beneath her eiderdown duvet. It does fill a man with longing—not for the cursed domesticity of marriage, but the prelude to that, the passions and whatnot. She even asked me if I thought she was beautiful. I told her she was a perfectly attractive young (more or less) woman. She told me neither of us were young anymore. I found it rather rude of her to assume my age (and her at least eight years my senior!) but found it equally difficult to be sharp with her when she held such tender sadness in her eyes. Told her I should return to my bed and had just crossed the threshold with my candle when she called after me again. “Do you have trouble sleeping, Doctor?” _

_ “No,” I told her, “I’ve slept fine. Why do you ask?” _

_ She shrugged limply against her pillows. “I often have nightmares. I thought perhaps you do, too.” _

_ I assured her I had no nightmares and in fact could not recall any of my dreams. I wanted to ask her what these nightmares entailed—and perhaps if they contributed to her need of drink—but by then exhaustion had overcome her. I put out her candle and at last found rest. _

_ I had thought myself well-versed in the shapes of suffering, but I now learn myself a neophyte. Peculiar! _

_ Despite the late-starting sleep, morning found me roused before dawn and so I joined Michelle on her quest to collect eggs. She was startled to find me so willing, but when I insisted it was my pleasure she smiled and walked in stride with me to the henhouse. Asked me how I’d slept (a popular topic in this household evidently), told her fine and inquired if she’d had any nightmares. She looked alarmed. “I’ve never had a nightmare.” _

_ “No? How refreshing.” A touch of levity, most appreciated in the misty morning. “Tell me, has Madame always been so? Or have you noticed a steady worsening in the time since the accident?” _

_ Her mouth twisted. A pleasant mouth, the maid has; less elegant than Marianne’s, but far swifter to smile. “Worsening, yes. There were times when I thought she might be healed, but . . .” _

_ “Her wounds are healing.” _

_ She shook her head. “It’s her heart that is hurting her.” _

_ We fell into silence while the eggs were retrieved from beneath several sullen hens. She watched me closely, though probably not as closely as she was endeavoring to appear, and I answered her silent ponderance with an immensely brief anecdote of my boyhood visiting Grandmother’s home in the country. A youthful curiosity danced in the maid’s eyes and I found myself offering descriptions of her horses, the old dog, the gang of barn cats. No words wasted on the old bitch herself, nor the loathsome time spent listening to her talk over frothy tea and stale biscuits. I took the burden of carrying the egg basket so I could linger as long as I liked with her forced by my side with propriety keeping her quiet against rushing off for the kitchen. Did feel a bit guilty, but justification comes easily: it’s not as if anyone else was awake yet at that time, anyway. _

_ Our conversation there in the golden fogged yard followed thusly: _

_ “Have you been with the family long?” _

_ “Yes, for almost ten years.” _

_ “Goodness. I admire your loyalty.” _

_ “They are my family. And I could not leave now, not when . . .” _

_ “Of course. Tell me something, does the Madame ever confide in you?” _

_ “Monsieur—” _

_ “I’m not asking for her whispered secrets. I just mean to say, if she were to tell you of a medical issue, for example, that she felt perhaps embarrassed to mention to me, it would be pertinent to tell me. For the sake of your mistress. Do you understand?” _

_ “Yes. But she does not tell me such things.” _

_ “I see. But you will let me know if she does.” _

_ “Yes.” _

_ “Excellent. And I also wished to ask about Mathieu. His eating, first of all. Does he take three meals? Does he drink throughout the day?” _

_ Here she struggled to put together a response before at last giving me a difficult nod. I’d grown tired of hedging and came at it straight: “Does he, or doesn’t he?” _

_ A great pause, but she told me he did eat and drink. I asked if he acted any different than he had before the accident, aside from the typical trappings of grief and so on. She chewed on her lip and, after a long silence, confessed that she had not heard him speak since the accident. Then, quickly, she apologized and told me she really must begin breakfast. I let her have the basket and watched her go. Thanked her, even though she’d left me with more questions than answers. The smile she gave over her shoulder was apologetic but warm enough to burn away the rest of the dissipating fog. One wonders why some Frenchman hasn’t already stolen the maidservant away. _

_ Madame at last sober for breakfast, with no wine at hand. If she remembered the events of the previous night, she did not show it. We both listened to Alfred describe the bird nest he’d found in the wood, how it must have fallen from its branch in the wind, how it had no eggs in it but if he could just get a boost up he could climb and replace the fallen. Marianne executed this idea before it became a request. Climbing was far too dangerous, apparently. Alfred kicked the table legs and sulked over his plate until, after Madame had excused herself, I quietly suggested the boy and I have a stroll in the direction of this nest of his. It was as if a second sunrise had come over France, the way his face lit up. Women are risky too, but it has always been the children who destroy me, and these boys are proving no exception. _

_ Into the elms and poplars we went. Midday is the typical jaune, bleu, et vert but the mornings and evenings of France are indescribable. Only half-listened to Alfred’s nattering, preferred instead to observe the shadows of branches cast over unruly beds of wild roses and sun-dappled grasses. One fears intoxication, truly. At last came to an accomplished English oak, among the roots of which there was indeed a small bird’s nest. Bits of pale eggshell within the cluster of twigs; told Alfred there was no need to replace the nest, for the offspring had already fledged. He looked disappointed: “Maybe they’ll use it next year if we put it back.” _

_ “No,” I lied, “birds never use the same nests. By the time they come back, it will need repair. They’ll want a new one.” _

_ He pondered this information in bewilderment. “But I thought you said . . .” _

_ This made me question my French. “I beg your pardon?” _

_ His confusion became worry and he shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” And he ran off! _

_ Stood a precious second to contemplate my next move, then decided to give chase. Been a good while since I last ran and was gasping after only a handful of strides, but thankfully the boy stopped and waited until I’d composed myself. Murderous rush of blood to my head. Held my knees and told him he had no reason to flee from me. He looked dubious, as if there was some inherent reason not to trust me, an adult in his home. I wonder how his father treated him. I wonder, too, how his mother is treating him now. _

_ Tried to be tactful. “Did you think I was angry, Alfred?” _

_ Another shrug, his lips squeezed between his teeth. _

_ “Did you think I would shout at you?” _

_ “I don’t know.” _

_ Couldn’t find any better way to say this: “Did your father often shout at you?” _

_ He stared up at me with more emotions than I could name in his eyes. “Sometimes.” _

_ In that moment, with those young eyes so close to tears beholding me, I forgot the track I’d set out upon. I smoothed the poor lad’s cowlick and told him my father was much the same. “But we mustn’t dwell on that. There’s a much grander life there, beyond angry fathers. You’ll grow up to find it.” _

_ Words I’d wanted to hear? Perhaps. Alfred’s response? He embraced me, his head on my shoulder, with just as much desperation as his mother the night before. My tongue is bittered by the sorrow of this family. I will do what I can, but I can already see that they need more help than I will be able to give. _

_ Alfred and I remained out of doors until lunch. Marianne smiled upon us when we returned, accepting the nosegay of wildflowers I had suggested Alfred pick for her and rewarding him with a kiss on each cheek. She continued to smile at me while Alfred treated her to the story of our travels—neglecting to mention our brief chat about fathers—and declared I had earned myself an extra helping of Michelle’s petit madeleines for brightening their day so. Accepted, obviously. Maudlin, but still scrumptious. _

_ Rest of day uneventful. Kept my eye out for Mathieu but saw no sign of him. Even stood a moment at his door, but heard nothing on the other side. Opened my mouth to ask Marianne about Mathieu after dinner and found myself unable to breach the subject; didn’t want to see her happiness fade. This is the bane of medicine. Firmly told Michelle to make sure Mathieu ate his fill and received only a weary nod. Could not speak to her beyond that, had to lie down for most of the hours between luncheon and dinner. Overexerted myself, perhaps._

_ The frogs are harsh in my ears tonight. My head aches terribly. _


	4. 6TH—V—1912

_ Today began with reassuring progress made with Mathieu. Left my room early this morning to find the boy standing in the hall, observing a painting on the wall. Outdated in my inexperienced opinion, a nameless French classique that amounts to nothing more than a flowered meadow and impressionist trees. Feared spooking him and so asked quietly if Mathieu was an artist. The little lad turned to face me, surprisingly calm, and nodded. I asked if he’d like to help me brush up on my sketching skills. At last, an eager nod. I welcomed him into my bedroom and offered him some pages from the back of this journal, along with my pen. (How Pater would mourn this waste of ink. Pity.) Mathieu enjoyed this activity and proved rather good at forming from nothing likenesses of birds, a squirrel, flowers. Told him he had a lovely eye for it. His smile was sad, just like his mother’s, but he didn’t say a word through the entire interaction. I must try to be patient. _

_ No sooner had Mathieu shown this small glimpse of pleasure than the bell rang for breakfast. The boy leapt up and ran out, leaving my pen to splatter ink across his work. By the time I’d cleaned it up and hurried to the hall, Mathieu’s door was again closed and locked. Perhaps this is overindulgence; I was never allowed a lock on my childhood room. Then again, perhaps it is beneficial for Mathieu to have a private space, particularly in this time of pain. In any case, I shall rise early again tomorrow in the hopes to replicate this morning’s tête-à-tête. I believe there is no physical reason for Mathieu’s silence; if I can entrust myself to him enough to open his mouth, then I can truly help him. _

_ Felt less inclined to follow Alfred through the foggy forest today; shadowed Michelle instead. Helped her groom Pierre, a gentle soul. One can never have one’s fingers lipped too many times by the velvet nose of a pony. Michelle laughed—all the more beautiful without sunlight to warm us—and said, “Ah, he is just looking for attention. He shows off for handsome guests.” _

_ How curious. _

_ I met her eye over the cob’s withers and added with perfect cadence: “And lovely maids.” _

_ Had not intended to play this particular song—one never intends to, of course, but once one learns it the pages are always in the back of one’s valise—but Michelle seems to know the notes well. I had misread the young maidservant’s awkwardness. Perhaps she was only gauging me before, or gauging how appropriate it might or might not be to begin this sinful symphony while her family is in mourning. Didn’t make any actual advancements, partly because one simply mustn’t rush these things, but mostly because in just that moment Alfred cried out from the open door of the stables. _

_ “You can’t do that! I’m telling Maman!” _

_ Michelle covered her mouth, but I assured her everything was fine. Only a misunderstanding, with enough of our eyes together that she would know precisely who would be doing the misunderstanding. Gave Pierre a final stroke, bless the companionable silence of a good steed, and followed the caterwauling to Mme Bonnefoi. She had been embracing her son but sent him away when she saw me. He refused to abandon her until she sweetened the suggestion with “there are cookies in the pantry” and off he went, sniffling. Gave Marianne my story: had only been assisting the maid, enjoying her company, and happened to fumble the curry comb. What Alfred saw was only the pair of us both attempting to catch it; the result was only the illusion of intimacy. Asked her if there was anything I might do to soothe this wound. Her response? She observed me coldly for a moment, then said, in sharp English of all things, “I am sure you will think of something, Monsieur Kirkland. You are a doctor, after all.” _

_ Away she went. Decided to bridge the rift between me and Alfred sooner rather than later. Only took a bit of coaxing to convince him to join me on a frog hunt in one of the abundant ponds at the château. Both of us covered in mud and slime by the end of it, and all of our quarry released back, but the boy had forgotten the early noon tears and so Michelle’s disgust at the sight of our boots was worth it. Thought she and Alfred enjoyed ‘accidentally’ upending a bucket of water on me a tad too much. In any case, half of the family was smiling and the doctor went thankless, as always. _

_ Marianne gave me the cold shoulder and positively frigid eye-teeth for the rest of the day. At dinner I feared I had crossed a line forevermore, but I should not have been so quick to assume. I am just back from her bedchamber. She was lying with her hair down, all the more golden by candlelight, and when I had finished dressing the wounds on her thighs, she took my hand and held it between her legs. I believe it was a nurse who taught me that the swiftest spreading disease is jealousy. _

_ Treated a rather severe case of ‘female hysteria’ and retreated to bed with a slightly strained wrist and nothing more. How is it that a man can feel young and old at the same time? Curious, indeed. I do wonder if Marianne has also stroked these keys before, because she did not even suggest I join her tonight. Perhaps I’ve misread this entire family. Time will tell. _

_ Mustn’t rush these things. _


	5. 11TH—V—1912

_ A routine has come to us in Château Bonnefoi. _

_ Mornings find me rising a half hour before dawn for the lamplit sessions with Mathieu. He is never absent from the hall when I peek out; I suspect the routine is a comfort to him, after his life being upheaved so violently by the accident. We’ve begun to piece together an apothecary anthology of the blooms in Burgundy. The back pages of this diary now contain ink sketches of leafery, with neat labels from yours truly in both English and French. Mathieu has yet to speak, but the satisfaction of this activity brings regular smiles to his face. My fellow graduates who believed treatment is only available in bandages or bottles were wrong. One might call this medicine for the soul, if one believed in such things. Just this morning, instead of running out when the breakfast bell rang, Mathieu lingered at my writing desk, a look of regret in his eyes. Dared to ask if he’d like to dine with us this morning; this brought a mournful darkness to his face. He shook his head with a resignation beyond his years and abandoned me yet again. Have not asked him any questions about his mother, his father, or his life behind that closed bedroom door. Don’t want to shatter this fragile bond we’ve between us. Besides, it’s good for the boy to be free of black thoughts for the time being. _

_ After breakfast, I join Michelle in the courtyard for some husbandry. We collect eggs, feed and water the ponies and goat (Thérèse), scatter stale crusts for the ducks. A certain peace surrounds her that cannot be found within the Bonnefoi family, something simpler than the energy they possess. Then our wicked song will play its next refrain and she will be restless, pulling at my sleeve or threading fingers through my hair. (Have never had much patience for women touching my hair. I would inquire as to the appeal, if I expected to receive a straight answer.) Yesterday I’d barely finished hanging Pierre’s hay net before Michelle was secreting me into the stable’s feed closet and kissing me against the door. Had no idea French women were so insatiable, but then, it’s the people of service who wear the thinnest and require the most in return. I should know. _

_ Afternoons are spent tramping through the wood with Alfred. He uses me as his dictionary, racing to and fro with whatever he can reach in his hands. “What is this? What is this?” The boy will be invaluable if some local novelist ever requires English translations of common weeds. Just as with Mathieu, I find myself unwilling to breach solemn topics. Even when I do ask about his mother’s behavior before the accident compared to its current state, he gives half-answers and quickly steers the topic to something he’s become fascinated by: faeries. One dew-sparkling morning we stumbled across a small array of mushrooms, which prompted an education on faerie rings and the hours I spent searching for them as a boy, and Alfred has pestered me for more folklore ever since. He delights in stories of hobgoblins and black dogs, but tends to become too invested in the fantasy. I spent three hours with him during a thunderstorm on Wednesday night, so convinced he was that a ghost would snatch him up on every strike of lightning. (He fell asleep eventually, curled on my lap so it took another hour for me to escape without disturbing him.) All in all, he makes for a fine pupil. _

_ Evenings are now spent in the sitting room, Michelle and Marianne both with needlework at hand, Alfred on the floor at my feet enacting great battles with his carved wooden soldiers. (A bit old for such things, I should think, but recently I’ve come to believe it is best to stay young as long as one can.) The fire crackles on damp nights and, when harmless conversation lulls, I am called upon to entertain with stories of nameless past patients and the palatable worst of what we got up to in school. Feels like family, if not for the missing Mathieu. I keep my eye on the doorway on these cozy nights, but I never catch a glimpse of the boy. Occasionally I find Marianne watching me do this. In those moments, I wish I could find a scalpel sharp enough to remove the disappointment on her face. _

_ Tonight proves different from these past. I have been welcomed into Marianne’s bed, at last; I write this to the last half-inch of candle while she sleeps at my side. Will of course find my way back to my own room before dawn; Mathieu expects me there, and I would not want to repeat the hysterics drawn from Alfred at the sight of myself and Michelle in a far more innocent embrace. Kept myself gentle, of course, with Marianne not yet fully healed, but she practically tried to devour me. If she could taste her maid on my lips, she did nothing to show it. Have no idea how I’ve gotten myself into another of these situations. Am perhaps marked by the devil. In any case, one can only hope the maid has sense enough to remain subtle. Can’t expect her to stop entirely. Such restraint won’t be found in me, but I have ample evidence to prove the ‘weak sex’ is not so at all. I hold a lit match in one hand and a stick of dynamite in the other. _

_ Days have already blurred together. I feel as though I’ve been here for years. _


	6. 14TH—V—1912

_ Just as I feared: tensions have begun to rise in the château. Michelle and Marianne giving each other lingering stares lately, particularly at mealtimes. At breakfast this morning, Michelle rested her hand between the blades of my shoulders as she leant over to refill the butter dish. Felt her fingers tickling my hair, for God’s sake. One would think a maid would have more experience, if not in parodies of adultery than at least secrecy. Has no visiting manservant ever ‘courted’ her? Marianne is far more savvy than her maid, naturally, and plainly saw the touch. Nearly bit my lip clean through when I kissed her tonight, and made it very clear I would not be sharing her bed for sleep. Jealousy begets violence. Oddly enough, there seems to be something familiar about this hostility. One wonders what the past staff of this household would say, if tracked down and interviewed about the previous goings-on. No one here has said anything outright, of course; that would be unlike this family. _

_ This afternoon was far more exciting than the previous several: was called in to a neighboring estate to assist in a birth. Never my favorite activity, truth be told, but better a birth than a death. I’ve begun to feel rather impotent in the affairs—quite—of the Bonnefois; had almost forgotten how good it feels to be a doctor, to help people. Drove Pierre with Marianne at my side, giving directions. (She insisted on going, once Michelle offered to show me the way. Mon jolie chat.) The other home was not nearly as old nor as grand as Château Bonnefoi, but there was something sunnier about the place, it must be said. Draped in vines and hemmed with lavender and lilies, that sort of fanciful place. Soft on the outside yet hard within; the family was legion and all regarded me with varying levels of distrust or derision. (And the French wonder why the English mock them so. Do unto others, as Mater says.) Was led into the young lady’s bedchamber, where there was no sign of a husband but several hovering women who I took to be her mother, aunt, and grandmother. It was this old wench who watched me with the most discontent. Marianne had elected to be my assistant through the process, and when I addressed her—quite properly, I assure you, and I believe it’s quite admirable to speak one’s second language with perfect grammar whilst catching a baby—the wrinkled bitch laughed at me! Asked her sharply if she considered my medical expertise humorous and she shook her head, started singing some foolish French lullaby to her writhing granddaughter. Hideous affair, after that; found my hands shaking more than once, entirely distracted from my work. A good thing surgery wasn’t required. The baby came without complication, and I told them to call on me again if there was any trouble through the night or the following day. The mother and the mother’s mother thanked me, but the matriarch only gazed at me with those glittering slits of eyes and that maddening, knowing smile. If they weren’t so intoxicating, I’d have nothing to do with women. _

_ However, I shan’t be too scathing of them as a whole. On the drive back, Marianne looked nearly as angry as I felt and said to me, “Don’t listen to that woman. She thinks she knows more than she does.” I said nothing, but felt rather pleased at this defense. Then her next words shocked me: “You’re a fine doctor, and a good man.” I can only wonder if she said it because she believes it or because she wanted to make me feel guilty. I told her I’d stopped believing in good or bad men. She looked away, suddenly withdrawn, and said softly, “So have I.” _

_ I must commend Marianne—and Michelle, to a degree, but it is expected of a servant—for having no fear of dirtying her hands. That is something I have long admired in women of her particular design: the ability to be at once hardy and elegant, robust yet lithe. Writing in this moment does make me question if I should add the addition kind yet cruel. I have seen her kindness toward Alfred, for example, but I have only seen her ignore Mathieu. I’d been meaning to speak to her about it but was struggling to find the proper time. As it tends to happen, the time—propriety notwithstanding—found me. _

_ Once I had returned from the birth I sought Alfred, who I found kicking pebbles around the courtyard. Assumed he was grumpy because our usual routine had been interrupted and asked him what he’d like to do in our remaining hours before dinner. Now, though I was still listening perfectly well to the boy, I will admit my gaze strayed from him when Michelle left the house to hang out the bedclothes for airing. Alfred would have admired the way sunlight kisses bronze streaks into her hair, as well, if only he was a few years older. Unfortunately, he isn’t and began crying in earnest, “No! You’re no fun to play with! I’m going to play with Mathieu!” _

_ I must again admit to weakness here. It was that damned old woman; I would not normally succumb to something as petty as taking offense from a child’s fickle whims, but she’d given me a terrible shake. I made the mistake of saying, “I thought you only played with him at night. Your adventures, yes?” _

_ Full voice now: “You don’t know anything!” _

_ “No? I know he’s an excellent artist. We sketch things together every morning.” _

_ Tears in his eyes. “No! Mattie only plays with me!” _

_ It shames me, but was there ever any hope of stopping Arthur Kirkland once he’d started? Fatefully not. Not so, I told Alfred, he and I drew butterflies just this morning, before dawn. Some part of me felt satisfaction through this sadism—indeed, high time Alfred learned that Mathieu deserves friendship just as much as he does—but the rest of me felt guilt gushing as fiercely as the tears now pouring down the poor lad’s face. _

_ Rendered inconsolable, Alfred whirled and ran into the house, wailing, “Maman!” _

_ I bounded after him and nearly toppled Marianne, who had come with just as much speed from the opposite direction. The thought came into my head that something was off about her, different, and lingered even as others overrode it. Alfred clung to her skirts and bawled, again making me question my French, “He doesn’t love me! He loves Mathieu! Make him come back!” He tried to say something else as well, but by that time he was overcome with his own sobs. Have never seen such a display from a lad, of his or of any age. Utterly speechless. _

_ Marianne looked more haunted then than I had seen her since my arrival. She tried stroking his hair and giving him kisses, but they were the blunt, awkward motions of a marionette. Eventually she sent Alfred to his room, and we both heard his paroxysm through the walls. (I expect Michelle, the ponies, chickens, and goat did as well.) At last I found my voice, but the only words offering themselves were “I didn’t mean to upset him.” _

_ Marianne didn’t look at me. She seemed to be lost in thought. I think I even spotted her lips moving, as if she were saying something to herself in her head. If only she would say half the things that crossed her mind aloud, I might be able to help her. _

_ Moved on from my shock and guilt through focusing on my work. After all, I had no fear of upsetting her now, seeing as we both felt like the house was falling down around us. “It worries me,” I told her. “Mathieu and Alfred should receive equal attention. Do you take the time to ensure this?” _

_ She stared at me, and I saw something I had not seen since the young girl with ginger hair. I saw it then, as I held the tourniquet as tight as I could to her side and still it was not enough, never enough, and her face was whiter even than the bandages had been and she sighed her last breath beneath my hands, and I saw it in Marianne today: the light died in her eyes. _

_ She spoke, but the words were so soft, barely more than a whisper, I only heard the first: “I tried.” _

_ I begged her pardon and she turned away so suddenly I started. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said, on the edge of a sob of her own. She hurried away to her room, and I stood there, listening to the cries of mother and son, all of them tears I had brought forth in one way or another. Michelle came to find me, but she didn’t kiss me, didn’t even try to touch me. She just gave me a cup of tea and a bit of cake. Both tasted of sorrow. _

_ Neither Marianne nor Alfred came to dinner that night. Michelle served only me, at the head of the table. Every time I caught my reflection in the silverware, my head throbbed. Now I squint against the pain in my skull, but I write. Would another doctor have done this family such a disservice? Is it my fault? Or Marianne’s? Or the old woman’s? Or God’s? _

_ Now I realize, too late, always too late, why Marianne looked different. Today was the first day I have seen her wearing the black of mourning. _


	7. 16TH—V—1912

_ My only concern is Mathieu. _

_He had been increasingly sorrowful with each passing day, and I fear I am to blame for this change. I have begun asking him questions. Only a particular selection; I didn’t want to overwhelm the boy. I asked him if he ate regular meals, then if he felt safe in the château, and finally if his mother was kind to him. Hoped my solemn tone would inspire speech, but alas, he did not break his silence. No, he only shook his head. In response to the questions, I wonder, or to the fact that he was expected to supply an answer at all? It put me on alert, regardless. Waited a few minutes, then asked him if Michelle brought food to his room. Again, the shaken head, but no self-pity in the boy; he accepts this treatment as normal, the poor tortured thing. Now I understand: the late-night adventures Alfred spoke of must entail the pair of them sneaking off to the pantry for sustenance. ‘Mathieu doesn’t like eating with us’ Alfred told me my first day here. Does he believe that, or is he simply repeating what his maman told him? I was furious, regardless, and told Mathieu I would have a word with the rest of the family. He looked horrified at this and ran out. I leapt after him, but the boy is impossibly swift, and he locked the door behind him. I know this now to be not a function of privacy, but self-protection._

_ Alfred and Marianne left for their weekly town excursion even before breakfast, so I had only Michelle to confront. “I told you to see that the boy is fed, and he has just told me you don’t bring any food to him.” _

_ She turned away from her cooking, bewildered as if I’d just woken her from a deep sleep. “Who?” _

_ “Mathieu!” _

_ She looked at me in alarm, then exhaustion overcame her. “Oh, Arthur.” _

_ The nerve of the girl! Told her she would be calling me by my title from here on out. If she believed our brief affair to stand between herself and my ambition to help my patients, she was sorely mistaken. “Remember your place.” _

_ To my surprise, genuine anger crossed her face. “And when will you remember yours?” _

_ I grabbed her wrist—such was my level of rage in that moment—but as soon as I’d made that motion, pain bloomed within my head and pounded mercilessly to the beat of my heart. Have never felt such agony; went blind with it, for a few precious seconds. _

_ Michelle shook her head, pulling away from me with ease in my weakened state. “I thought things could be different this time, but I was wrong. I can’t wait any longer. Tell Marianne I’m sorry. For all of this.” _

_ I was only vaguely aware of her retreating to her quarters, gathering her things, and setting off down the lane. I didn’t have the strength to follow her nor ask where she was going. Wanted to shame her for abandoning her post in this of all times, as well, but none of that could happen. I could only make my way back to my room and collapse onto my bed. _

_ I don’t remember sleep. What I remember is falling to the mattress, then waking to Marianne resting a cold compress on my forehead. The pain had lessened in my head, but it felt as if it had leeched to the rest of my body, filling me with the aches and weakness of a flu. All I lacked were nausea and fever, though I must have been hot to the touch if Marianne saw fit to cool me. It was a trial to open my mouth enough to speak, but I managed it, told her Michelle was gone. _

_ She nodded. “I thought she might leave.” _

_ My jaw became suddenly stiff, but no matter; I had no idea what to say, anyway. _

_ Marianne straightened my collar, her tone no more pensive than someone mentioning forecasted rain. “Michelle slept with my husband, before the accident. More than once, I assume. Neither of them were very good at keeping secrets.” _

_ So my diagnosis of this family was wrong. I found myself wondering if the maid is to blame for the Bonnefois’ suffering, in some roundabout way. My head aches dully still, and it hurts trying to trace that line of thought. “She should be hunted down,” I said. “She has been starving Mathieu.” _

_ Marianne went very still and did not look at me, but through me. All that came from her was silence. _

_ I struggled to sit up. “The boy needs help. He still hasn’t spoken to me.” _

_ Marianne placed her hands on my shoulders and pushed me down with mortifyingly little effort. “Don’t excite yourself,” she told me. “I’ll bring your dinner when it’s ready.” _

_ Dinner! I lost the entire day to the nameless pain in my head. Something is wrong with me, but I can’t begin to think of what it might be. But there are more important matters at hand. Marianne and Michelle might be at odds when it comes to the men in this house, but they seem to be in agreement as far as slowly killing Mathieu goes. The maidservant and the madame, both complicit, and Mathieu’s only hope Alfred, who cannot be expected to be a hero. He has me, now. _

_ “I don’t want your poison,” I spat. Tried again to rise, but to no avail. Whatever sleep I’d had had not left me rested in the slightest. _

_ Marianne halted in the doorway, and I saw defeat slump her shoulders briefly before she stole herself again. “Fine,” she said, and chilled me with her calm. “Tomorrow you can leave here. We no longer require your services, Dr. Kirkland.” _

_ She closed the door behind her. _

_ Marianne will not be rid of me so easily. I will not allow this to happen to Mathieu. I sit and write, now, biding my time and praying for my strength to return. Waiting for night to fall, for the madame to retire. _

_ Then I’m taking Mathieu and fleeing this wicked place._


	8. 17TH—V—1912

_ They trust me with my pen. Should they? I am a violent man. But to myself? Perhaps not. I don’t know. Thoughts come without reason or rhythm; only memories make sense now. That’s what I’m supposed to be writing now. The past. A memorandum. They have told me to write this, because I have tired of trying to speak it to them. Truth is still truth in ink or breath. I should not waste either on you people. _

_ “State your case, Mr. Kirkland.” I am no longer doctor, but patient. _

_ Once night had fallen, I left my room and went for the final time to Mathieu’s door. I spoke his name, low, but got no response. Knocked as loud as I dared. Nothing. Finally, I abandoned my fear of waking Marianne and beat the door down with my shoulder. I attribute the age of the lock and my own adrenaline to the success; what if Mathieu was suffering, within? What if Marianne had done something to him, or Michelle, in my time ridden to my bed? Inside was nothing that I had expected to see. _

_ I found myself in an untouched bedchamber. Every surface coated in dust. The curtains drawn and tied. The bed perfectly made and covered in framed photographs and wilted bouquets. I stepped closer. Each photograph was another shiver down my spine. Some were of Mathieu. Some of Marianne. Some of Alfred. _

_ All had myself in them, frozen in time. _

_ Next I knew, my head was again overwhelmed with pain. I nearly fell to my knees. When I could see again, Mathieu was there, watching me with sadness in his eyes. I pulled him to me and ran. The boy was light as a feather. _

_ Just as I feared, I’d woken the château. Alfred was there, crying, screaming. “Papa! Papa!” It was my heart that hurt, then, that hurt worse than my head. I knew, but I didn’t want to know, because it was killing me. I took Mathieu out to the stables and saddled Pierre. Could still hear the screaming and knew the poor pony was sick with it, but there was only escape, then. I put Mathieu on his back and climbed up behind him. One never forgets how to ride. In the courtyard, Alfred and Marianne both had been summoned by my efforts. Alfred wailed, begging me not to leave again, but Marianne had hold of him so he could not follow us. I will never forget the looks on their faces. Utter devastation, and grief, such cold dark grief. _

_ Do no harm. I have ruined this family. _

_ As I rode out toward the village, the road took on shapes in the darkness that it hadn’t during the day. It looked familiar now, yet twisted. Then I was blinded by the lights of a motorcar and I saw: the cars meeting, swerving, rolling, blood on Marianne’s skirts, Alfred for once silent and glassy-eyed with shock, and myself battling with the mangled rear door until at last forcing myself in and grasping Matthew’s legs and hauling him out. Somehow, untouched by glass or metal. Just the dead puppet angle of his neck, and the rings of bruises round his ankles. _

_ Eyes open. A pair of gendarmes bending down to where I had landed in the dirt. Pierre stood over me, too, nosing my hair. My last ally and betrayer. The boy was gone, vanished yet again. I could not make him stay. I was too late. _

_ “Anything to say for yourself, Monsieur Kirkland?” _

_ “Mathieu.” My pathetic rasp. _

_ He nodded. “I thought you might say that. It’s about time you got back to the hospital, I think.” _

_ And now I sit in a room in the hospital in Vézelay, writing my side of the story as they bade me. I know none of them believe me. I remember it all now, but it hurts, such terrible internal pain. Memories come in flashes, Alfred quaking beneath my shouts, pressing Michelle against the pantry door, sitting at my desk with Mathieu standing in the doorway, awaiting attention that never came. The doctor tells me it was their final scheme, to send me back to my family in the hopes that I remember. I do remember. I remember too much. _

_ Mathieu was there. I keep telling them, but they don’t believe me. Or perhaps they do. Perhaps they wish to drive me truly mad. It is working._

_Marianne was here, too, without Alfred. My last memory of the boy is her holding him, a hand on the back of his head so he could only sob into her shoulder, so he could not watch me leave him behind. She didn’t say anything to me during her visit, just spoke with the doctors and watched me with that dead pity in her eyes. Does she regret all of this? I have tried, but I cannot summon memory of the man I was when we courted or wed. Was I worth what I became? Or was I always so? I was tied to my bed then and thick with drugs or I would have stood and reached for her. Told her I was sorry. I’m sorry, Marianne. I’m sorry, Alfred. I’m sorry, Mathieu. _

_ They’ve all gone now, left me with my journal and my pen and my bed and my window that looks down four floors. They told me they’d be trying hydrotherapy tomorrow, among other things. They told me I shall be a fine subject, an aid to medicine. I will not. _

_ It’s Mathieu who saves me, in the end. He stands beside me, as always, and points. The window. Unlocked, opened a crack for Marianne’s benefit, and kept open. I would never have been so careless, if this were my patient. Told Mathieu not to watch, but knew he would anyway. He watches everything. He knows all, always has; just a matter of whether or not he told. Was I relieved, then, to lose that risk?_

_ He is the only one who will forgive me. I don’t deserve my son. He still came back for me. He waits. _

_ I take his hand. _


End file.
